Junkyard 3 week one

In Cutbank, Montana, there remains one working bar with the name "Spud's" written on the side, two grocery stores with boarded windows, and a post office. As my grandmother creeps over the railroad tracks, next to the field of abandoned oil rigs where my grandfather worked when my father was still sledding down Dead Man's Hill with his sister tied to the back, I notice a child, no older than eight, chasing a mangled dog around the corner. "I had no idea people still lived in this God-forsaken town," someone in our car says. Each house, peeling from weather and age, has sunk to shack-dom, welcoming the meth addicted transients of the closest town, still fifty miles away. My father set the prairie up the hill on fire, next to the yellow and green dog house that some kind of bird comes half flying, half running out of. Out of a cracked window peers two faces, wrinkled and pale. From my seat, I watch the woman's already faded blue eyes dim even more.